[James hasn't been bouncing back well. There has been forgiveness all over, a willingness to brush aside what happened, and true to form, Bond hasn't mentioned it with others. He stays clear most of the day, but eventually he winds up to the deck to smoke the terrible Maledictions Stark gave him, and into the pub to drink. It's not good, he knows, but he has it under control.
He's not a man who looks to the past, not for any reason - and he's been avoiding it by drinking more. Better to get pissed than think on the man he was. The man he could have been. It should be easy to dismiss, he knows: James knows who he is, what he is, but that awareness makes it impossible not to acknowledge how he could have been that monster. He views women as disposable pleasures, not meaningful pursuits. Viewed.
It drives him to drink too much, to smoke too much. This is not a place to lose control; it's an hostile environment, and could become a warzone at any moment. He knows this, but knowing doesn't stop him from having one more scotch, one more, one more. If he kept track of a record, he's beaten it tonight.
When he does wander out of the pub, it's empty, the deck is empty, and he knows he's sloshed. He can feel it in the weight of his body, the way he doesn't walk easily. His head swims, and he's glad no one's about to see him. He takes the stairs, reasoning that he'll walk it off before heading back for a shower.
He couldn't say what floor he's on when he hears the music: it drifts in, attracts his attention, and like an old dog following a scent he turns toward it, pushing open the door and leaning a hand on the frame to steady himself.
He stares blearily for a moment at the empty room before stepping inside, eyes casting uncertainly about for the speakers. He can't place the song; it's bothersome.
spam;
He's not a man who looks to the past, not for any reason - and he's been avoiding it by drinking more. Better to get pissed than think on the man he was. The man he could have been. It should be easy to dismiss, he knows: James knows who he is, what he is, but that awareness makes it impossible not to acknowledge how he could have been that monster. He views women as disposable pleasures, not meaningful pursuits. Viewed.
It drives him to drink too much, to smoke too much. This is not a place to lose control; it's an hostile environment, and could become a warzone at any moment. He knows this, but knowing doesn't stop him from having one more scotch, one more, one more. If he kept track of a record, he's beaten it tonight.
When he does wander out of the pub, it's empty, the deck is empty, and he knows he's sloshed. He can feel it in the weight of his body, the way he doesn't walk easily. His head swims, and he's glad no one's about to see him. He takes the stairs, reasoning that he'll walk it off before heading back for a shower.
He couldn't say what floor he's on when he hears the music: it drifts in, attracts his attention, and like an old dog following a scent he turns toward it, pushing open the door and leaning a hand on the frame to steady himself.
He stares blearily for a moment at the empty room before stepping inside, eyes casting uncertainly about for the speakers. He can't place the song; it's bothersome.